House of Shadows
by blancoroja
Summary: Bella's life is turned upside down when her name ends up in the blacklist of the most dangerous crime syndicate in the country, and although Edward Cullen infuriates her to no end, she has to trust him to keep her safe. Falling in love with him was definitely not in her plans. [B/E; AU; OOC; BPoV]


**A/N:** Hey, so this is my first Twilight fanfiction. Well, actually I've started writing others before, but they never really went anywhere and I never published them, so I consider this my first Twilight fic. I wasn't actually going to post this chapter until I've set an outline for the fic and written about half of it, but I don't want this fic to rot away in my Docs and maybe if I post it, I'll have more motivation to write it.

This is for Lucy, with love. Dude if it weren't for you, I would not be writing Twilight fic.

* * *

It's not been a good day, all things considered. First, I almost stab myself with a kitchen knife while reaching into the silverware drawer. Then, I spill milk all over my favourite pair of sweatpants. And now, I think this day is up for the _worst day this month_ award as my mom springs some news on me right when I'm about to dig into my blueberry pancakes.

I knew she wouldn't make me those for no reason. She only makes them for me when she's trying to butter me up (no pun intended).

"Why is he coming earlier this year?" I grumble. "He usually comes when school starts, or in the winter."

"Honey," my mom sighs, and warning signs starting going off in my head at her tone of voice. I can tell bad news is coming. "Your father…he's here because of business."

"Business?" Now this actually surprises me. Charlie's a cop, a cop all the way in some little town (ironic, considering how he left quoting the suffocating smallness of our hometown as one of the reasons) across the country. I don't know what kind of business he could have here. "What kind of business?"

"I don't know, honey. It's confidential. You know how police work goes."

"He's more of a sheriff than a police officer," I point out. "His most exciting case is probably investigating someone who ran over a deer."

"Bella…" she sighs. "He _is_ your father. You should be more respectful towards him."

"Yeah, I will be the day he acts like a real _dad_ instead of someone who's just genetically connected to me."

My mom winces, like I was talking badly about her instead of Charlie. It almost makes me feel bad. I don't know why she would be upset no matter what I said about him. They haven't been married in many years, and anyway, it was he who left her, not vice versa. It's not like she has anything to feel guilty about.

"He always brings you nice things," she says, like it's supposed to make me feel better. Grateful, even.

"I'm not a kid who can be won over with Barbie dolls, Mom."

"You're acting awfully childish right now, Bella," she points out, and I can't argue with her, but I get angry anyway.

"Well, I'm not mad at _you_, I'm mad at _him_. And I don't care if he's my father. What did he ever do besides help conceive me? He never taught me how to ride a bike, he never read a bedtime story to me, he never brought me fishing with him—"

I stop to catch my breath, biting down sharply on my lip, fighting down all the words that are crowding inside me, straining to escape. I could write an essay about my feelings regarding Charlie, but I'd rather just block them all out, forget that they even exist.

It's better that way, easier, not as painful.

I don't want to think about Charlie (that's all I ever think of him as – 'Charlie', not 'Dad', because he may be my father, but he doesn't deserve to be called a dad). I don't want to think about how he abandoned us to pursue his career, to pursue a bigger city, to pursue whatever else it was that he wanted rather than his own family.

And most of all, I don't want to think about how much it hurts sometimes, to think about his abandonment of us, of _me_, but I can't help it. The more you want to avoid something, the more it comes back to haunt you.

Even now, I still remember being a little girl watching the other kids being picked up by their fathers, riding on their shoulders, taking part in three-legged and egg-and-spoon races together. I remember being so sick with envy that I wanted to cry, especially since my mom was too busy working to put a roof over our heads to spend a lot of time with me.

I was alone, and even now, when I'm with my friends, or with my mom, sometimes I still feel so alone. People say that just because you're alone doesn't mean you're lonely. Me, I know that just because you're not by yourself doesn't mean that you're not lonely.

You can be lonely in the middle of a crowd, because having people beside you doesn't mean having people with you. There's a difference, a difference I know well.

And I know it's stupid, really, to blame Charlie for it (can you really miss what you never had?), for that feeling everyone gets sometime in their lives, but I can't help being irrational and selfish anyway.

I want to blame someone, to lash out, because then I wouldn't have to look at myself for answers.

"If you want to go fishing, honey, I can take you," my mom says, all gentle blue eyes. "I know it's not the same, but—"

"Mom," I cut her off, trying to be gentle too. I think I succeed, somewhat. "He may be my father, but you're my _mom_."

And I'm not really sure how to explain it beyond that. I've never been good with words, but I think that maybe they don't really matter, if the other person knows you well enough. Some things can't be expressed with words, and some things don't need to be said to be known.

That's how I feel when my mom's face softens, and the lines on it don't look like wrinkles, they look like remnants of smiles and warmth, and that's how her hug feels too, when she puts her arms around me.

And me, I don't just let my mom hug me, I hug back, and I feel like a child in her arms, even though I've grown taller than her and she has more white hairs than I can remember. I feel like a child who's loved and protected and safe, and really, it's not a bad feeling at all.

* * *

I don't go to the airport to pick Charlie up. He's going to come over anyway, carrying gifts as pathetic attempts to bridge the emotional distance between us with physical things that I really couldn't care less about, and the longer it is before I see him, the better.

Or so I tell myself, but I can't control the way something swells in my throat when Charlie comes to the doorstep with two ratty suitcases. His hair is thinner than the last time I saw him, although still the same colour as mine, and he has a nervous smile on his face that fades when he looks at me.

"Hey, Bells."

"Hey," I return blandly. "It's nice to see you."

Charlie can see through the lie, I'm sure. Not because he knows me well or anything – he doesn't – but I didn't exactly make a big effort into sounding genuine.

"It's uh, the weather's nice here. I'm used to a lot of rain—"

"Yeah, you told me." I turn my back to him, going to the fridge to pour myself a glass of juice. I'm not thirsty, not really, but I want an excuse to get away from him, even if it's just a little. "Do you want something to drink?"

"No, it's okay. Maybe later."

"Okay."

A few drops of juice lands on a healing paper cut on my thumb, and I hiss. Just my luck. Really, the universe loves me.

"Bells?" Charlie asks with concern. I almost cringe at the nickname. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." Charlie looks like he might reach for my hand, so I hurriedly jerk my arm away from him, not missing the look of hurt that flashes across his face. "It's just a paper cut."

"Okay." There comes that nervous smile again. I don't return it. "Say, Bells, I actually have something important to discuss with you and your mother—"

"Of course you do. You're awfully early this year."

"I'm guessing you're not very happy to see me."

"You guessed right."

I meet his gaze squarely, unflinchingly, and for some reason, I feel like the adult here, and he the child who's desperately (and futilely) seeking approval and acceptance.

Charlie looks away first.

"Look, Bells," he says. "I'm sorry I intruded on you like this, but something very serious and…dangerous is going on, and it's important that you know right away."

"Dangerous?"

"Yes." Charlie looks grave, and not just fatherly grave, but policeman grave. It actually gets my attention. "You see, I…well I guess you could say that I got mixed up in something a lot bigger than small-town crime."

I nod, slowly. "Is your life in danger or something?"

"It could be, actually," Charlie says, and he doesn't look like he's joking, not at all.

Now he really has my attention. No matter how angry I am at him, no matter how many teenage temper fits I throw, I would never actually wish harm on him.

"What happened? What—are you okay? Are there people after you?" There's genuine concern in my voice, and he must hear it, because he actually smiles a little. He has crow's feet, like my mom, only it looks more tired on him, if you can call wrinkles tired.

"On a standard patrol, I witnessed an exchange between one of the most prolific drug rings in the country and their…clients," he explains. "Not just that, but I saw a fight between them break out and one of the leaders got shot."

My eyes widen, and my breath freezes in my throat. That sounds like a scene out of a movie, not real life, not _Charlie's_ life. And to think that his life could be in danger now…

"So why are you here?" I blurt out. "Shouldn't you be, I don't know, waiting somewhere safe while they arrest those guys?"

Charlie gives a faint smile. "It's not that easy, Bells."

For the first time, I don't feel uncomfortable at the nickname. Given the news that Charlie's life is in danger, things like my lifelong grudge towards him suddenly seem insignificant.

"Well you have to be careful. These men, they sound dangerous. Drug rings usually are, right? Not that I know much about them except for what I watched on TV…"

"They _are_ very dangerous," Charlie says. "Especially this one. The government's known that they existed for years, even tried to plant a few agents undercover, but they've never succeeded in bringing them in. I believe they've only managed to successfully intercept a handful of deals."

"Isn't this more FBI stuff than what you deal with?"

"It is very much FBI business, yes," he agrees. "Actually, the FBI have gotten involved. Because, Bells…"

And now he suddenly looks very apologetic and guilt-stricken. It's not the first time I've seen this look, but I've never seen it quite so profound before, and it makes a fist of nervous tension lodge in my throat.

"I'm so sorry, but now you and Renée are involved too."

"Me and Mom?" I echo, confused. "Why?"

Charlie meets my eyes, and I'm suddenly reminded that he _is_ a police officer, that he carries a gun with him and knows how to use it. There's something about that look in his eyes, something steely and piercing.

"Because your lives are in danger now too."

* * *

I feel like my head is spinning after Charlie finishes telling me about everything. And I'm not just talking about the _I've a little dizzy_ kind of head spinning; I mean more the _oh I just found out the sun actually revolves around the earth_ kind of head spinning.

"Did you tell Mom this already?"

Charlie nods, eyeing me like he expects me to be mad at the news, but I just nod. He probably needed advice on how to break it to me.

"Let me get this straight," I start, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Since you're a witness, this—these people are after you, these dangerous armed drug dealers with connection to mobs and gangs and just every bad thing ever basically, and they might come after us because we're your…family."

I have a feeling that Charlie's wince is more from my stumble over the last part than what I said during the middle.

"Every bad thing ever is a bit of an exaggeration," he says, like he's trying to make light of the situation.

I ignore him. "And now we have to go under the Witness Protection Program?"

"Not exactly," Charlie hedges. "It's something similar to that, but it's a more recent program. Even safer."

I eye him suspiciously, not liking the way he doesn't seem to be telling the whole truth.

"You're taking this very well," Charlie adds, almost hopefully.

"That's because it's not kicking in yet," I reply flatly. I'm pretty sure I'm in a state of shock, and that's why I'm not freaking out, pacing around the room pulling my hair out, or maybe getting right into Charlie's face to yell questions and accusations at him.

After all, it's his fault that Mom and I are in danger. It's his fault that my life has flipped over its axis again, just when it was finally stabling.

Maybe the shock isn't hitting, but the anger sure is, in bucket loads.

"Why?" I ask him plainly. "Why can't you just—why can't I have a normal life? Why couldn't you just stay away and out of it? Why did you do this to Mom and I? WHY?!"

By now I'm half-screaming at him, my whole body tensed like a tautly pulled wire, and his face is paler than I've ever seen it, our eyes – the same colour, although mine are a softer shape, like my mom's – meeting, mine fierce and his stricken.

"I'm so sorry, Bells," Charlie apologizes, sounding so sincere it almost makes me soften. "I never wanted to drag you or Renée into any of this. The thought of either of you being hurt…it terrifies me. That's why I'm begging you, you have to come with me so you can be safe. You can't stay here; they'll hunt you down, take you hostage. Maybe even…"

He can't get the rest of his words out, but I know what he's about to say. _They'll kill you_.

I'm not afraid, not at the theoretical thought of these crooks, whoever they are. I've read books with characters in these situations, watched TV shows and movies, but those are fiction, they're just invented stories with scripted lines, and now that this is actually happening to me, I can't even feel any fear or anxiety.

"I'd rather die than spend more time with you than I have to," I tell Charlie very calmly, very emphatically, and I take a savage kind of delight at watching all the colour drain from his face, the hurt filling his features, before I spin around and storm out of the living room.

I wish I have a door to slam, but even though there's no physical one, I feel like I've just slammed the door shut on our relationship, on any chance of us making up like I know he wants to, has wanted to for years.

It should make me feel happy, satisfied in a bitter, vindictive way, but I don't feel any of that. I just feel a hollow sort of heaviness in my chest, like my heart's suddenly doubled in weight.

I think it's the weight of guilt.

* * *

**A/N:** So, love it? Hate it? Please let me know how you feel :) Feedback is a writer's sustenance, you know.

Oh, and since I don't really have much written, and it's midterm time right about now, I have no idea when the next update will be. Thought I'd give you a head's up. I am notoriously bad at completing long fics, but I'm determined to finish this one.


End file.
